The Orchid and the Trickster
by skydivided
Summary: One Shot. Okha Soyan meets the Trickster god.


The Amber Orchid sat in her dressing room in the Waterlily, drooping with exhaustion. It wasn't becoming to slouch so, she told herself, but after three sets this evening, and _five_ costume changes, she just couldn't manage otherwise. She was dead tired, and this was the most tiring part of her night, if it even was still night. She feared the sun might already be starting to creep up - Graveyard Hag curse these early summer mornings - and that meant she had to be that much more thorough. She picked up yet another puff of cotton, and poured more of the costly liquid meant to remove makeup on it. Wiping the gold shadow from her eye, she felt as if she was slouching mentally, too. Amber Orchid was becoming Okha Soyan once more.

A curious whim struck her. Normally, she was in a hurry to get home to Nestor, but he was out dogging (on loan to Corus), and would be for days, so she had nobody to rush home to. She worked methodically, wiping along the bridge of her nose, the furrow between her eyes, and a perfect line down the center of her lips, until she had satisfied her urge. There. One half of her face was Amber, and one half was Okha. One half was all elegance and femininity, and the other… she let out a low groan. Even this illusion wasn't perfect. Looking closely in the mirror, she could see dark stubble growing along her jaw, on the Okha side - and on the Amber side as well, disguised by flesh colored makeup, but still there, still growing.

Today, it was too much. She was tired. She was so sarden tired. She buried her face in her too-large hand, and muttered, "Cursed, scumsucking Trickster, why me?" Then, she stiffened. Gods all bless, she'd gone and done it. She'd always said she'd never call the attention of the Trickster who had made her like this, lest he toy with her again, and now she'd called on him in the last way anyone should ever call a god. Oh gods, she was a looby, a great bellowing idiot…

She waited. She peeked between her fingers into the mirror, still tensed, waiting for the blow to fall. Minutes dragged by, until finally, groaning, she sagged entirely, resting her forehead on her dressing table. That had been too foolish.

"Something troubling you, Okha?" A soft, melodic voice inquired from the corner of the dressing room. She jumped, and whirled to face the speaker. She had not expected the Trickster - and there was no doubt, he was the Trickster - to be so unassuming. His short cropped hair was speckled gray and black, his clothes and jewels, although gaudy, common enough. She'd seen a thousand raka dressed like him, living in Port Caynn as she did. And yet, well, he was a god. She could no more deny that than she could stop breathing. The Trickster was in her dressing room.

"Forgive me." She said. She trembled, though her voice did not. She rose slowly, and then bowed as deeply and elegantly as she could. The hair on the back of her neck was standing straight up, as she said, "You have so many names. What should I call you?" Did she say Sir now? Or Your Majesty? Or-

The Trickster laughed. "Kyprioth will do fine." He said, not unkindly. "I have so many names, I answer to most things. Including," He said sharply, "'Scumsucking Trickster.'" Okha bowed her head, mortified (not to mention, terrified), as the god paused, then laughed. "Of course, you and I both know how that game is played, eh, Amber?" He said, arching an eyebrow after a moment. "We both have many names, and many faces. It's one of the reasons I like you so much, even if you do insist on worshiping at the Goddess' temple instead of my own. Not to mention that swiving Wavewalker." He muttered, rubbing the back of his head and looking for the world like a spiteful child.

"You… like me?" Okha stuttered. She had slipped back into her native Carthaki without noticing, and her voice had slipped between her mot's register and her cove voice. Kyprioth raised an eyebrow.

"A mot in a cove's body, convincing the world three times nightly that she is anything but. Living in the Rogue's court with the other foot in the bedchamber of a Dog sargeant. So many different faces, so many different tales, all told perfectly so that nobody suspects a thing unless you wish them to. My dear, you're practically my priestess. I adore you, even if you do think harshly of me." The Trickster purred. Okha stared at him, agog, then at last found her voice.

"I knew one, once, who was in the service of a god." She said, slipping back into her mot's voice. "He gave her gifts. Let her talk to ghosts, and whirlwinds and the like. Gave her eyes that could pierce a man's soul. Is that what you have done to me, then? You wished for a priestess, so you slipped me into the wrong body to watch me struggle?!" Her voice trembled at last, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. This might well be the end of her, and yet, she had to know. Falling to her knees, she whispered, "Why me?"

Kyprioth stared down at her with deep, deep eyes. Slowly, he knelt as well, so they were at eye level, and he rested a hand on her shoulder. Okha felt a deep comfort seep into her, so unexpected that she had to look up. Kyprioth looked apologetically at her.

"I did not choose this life for you." He said gently. "I do not have that power." His voice was different now. It was neither male nor female. It sounded like the wingbeats of a thousand crows, like laughter and sorrow and screams of joy all at once. "In the Realms of the Gods, my brother and sister watch over those humans being born. Mithros picks those souls he thinks should be men, coves, his followers, and the Mother Goddess seeks out those souls that she wishes to be mots." He told her. "Most of the time this works, and humans are sorted by the time they are born into two groups. But sometimes, my brother and sister can not agree on who gets to claim a soul before it is born."

Okha gasped, as images poured through her brain, of the Gods' realm, so rich in color and sound and light that she could barely process them. Kyprioth was showing her how she had came to be.

"My sister claimed you." Kyprioth's voice whispered in her ear. "And then my brother stole you away, half formed. They argued over you for days, months, but neither would give you up. They saw something in you worth fighting over." Okha gaped at him. "And so you took your first breath with one foot in each world. Neither Mithros nor the Goddess could stake full claim on you, so instead, they agreed to share." The Trickster sighed. "They do not often visit the mortal realm." He said, suddenly back to his friendly cove's voice. He pulled his hand off her shoulder. "They do not understand the wounds they inflict on you, dear one. Not that I love to give my brother or sister the benefit of the doubt, mind, but I have known them for all eternity. They can be cruel, of course. As can I." He said with a laugh. "But here they just do not understand how their silly game of dividing the world into two parts can hurt someone who belongs in both, and neither." He sighed. "Now, me, I petitioned our parents to do away with gender entirely. Let people be what they want to be!" He said, smiling. "When I tire of being a cove, it's so much fun to be a mot! Why not let everyone have that fun? But I, alas, was overruled." He said with a shrug.

"If you have no stake in this, why come here? Why tell me all this?" Okha said, straightening her shoulders.

"Because I spend more time on this plane, and because I understand you. Because I hate to see someone I like hurting. And because it puts a burr under the tail of my siblings, letting them take the blame for once." Kyprioth said with a wicked grin.

"But you are a great god!" Okha murmured. "So can you - can you…?"

Kyprioth took a deep breath through his teeth.

"I am a god." He finally agreed. "And yes. I could change your body so it matched your soul, if you so wished. And if you ask me now, I will do so." Okha opened her mouth to beg, but found an invisible hand pressed against it, silencing her. "But wait. Before you ask, I want you to think how it would be. You would have much to gain, becoming a mot in body. But there are some things, dear one, that you would lose." He said kindly. Okha's brow furrowed, and then she realized what he meant. Nestor. Of course. Nestor loved her, through and through, but Nestor was somewhere in that in-between as well. He loved her male form, and tolerated when she dressed as a female.

Nestor would understand, and he might even stay with her, but she would be moving her pain onto him. She would be burdening the person she loved most of all.

"You truly are a trickster." She finally said. She didn't know if she was about to laugh or cry. "If you had told me that I would be offered my greatest wish, and that I would push it away, I would have died laughing."

"Life's a funny thing, isn't it?" Kyprioth chuckled. "You can't predict how it will go." Okha nodded, staring at the ground.

"At least I know, now." She finally whispered. "I can find strength knowing that I am not just a game to the gods." Kyprioth nodded.

"You are loved." He whispered, leaning forward and kissing her forehead. "By all of us, Okha. You are kind and brave and daring and funny, and you shine brighter than most souls will ever shine. I can't stop all the bad from happening to you. Like I said, life's a funny thing. But I will watch out for you." He was fading out of the room, slowly disappearing, when Okha sat up straight.

"Kyprioth?" She said quickly. The trickster snapped back into focus.

"Yes?" He said, tilting his head.

"I know you shouldn't change my form. Not if I wish to stay with my beloved. But there is one thing, I wonder if you could help with…" she asked, tilting her head beguilingly. Kyprioth looked at his subject, half male, half female, divided by makeup and cunning and skill down her face, and chuckled.

"I suppose I do owe you one favor, for not telling you sooner." He said lightly.

…

The sun was well and truly up when Okha Soyan left the Waterlily. Her makeup was gone, her hair pulled back like a cove's should be, her garb nothing out of the ordinary from any of the coves on the street. There was only one difference between her and them on the outside, one so slight that nobody would notice in a thousand years. She ran her hand over her chin again, feeling no resistance and rejoicing in that tiny fact. She wouldn't miss shaving, she thought happily to herself, letting herself into Nestor's house with a merry whistle. No, she wouldn't miss shaving at all.


End file.
